Seven Days
by narooks
Summary: "It's a strange and difficult thing, to learn the rhythm of another's life. But they are young and devoted, there's little their shared strength cannot accomplish. With the dedication of the earnest philosopher, they coordinate and adjust to each other, to living together."


_**Monday**_

"Okay, so now we add the salt?"

"Wait, was that supposed to be before or after we poured the water?"

They hover over the stove, peering into the pot distrustfully. They are two of the bravest and boldest heroes, the talk of the town, a sly-smiling pair bards write poetry about—and yet here they stand, he in a checkered apron, she in one of his sleeveless shirts, utterly defeated by a pot of noodles.

"Korra, oh spirits, it's boiling over!"

"_What_?"

It's their first week in the new apartment; half-opened boxes and surprises abound. One of these surprises is the unfortunate discovery that neither of them knows the first thing about cooking.

"What do I do?"

"Don't look at me!"

"_Korra!_"

She grabs the pot and dumps it into the sink with a huff. It hisses and the water bubbles up and out, as though mocking the two dumbfounded homemakers.

"What was that, Korra? Why'd you just throw it in the sink?"

"I panicked, okay!"

Bolin bites his lip. "Maybe we need more practice."

_**Tuesday**_

It's a strange and difficult thing, to learn the rhythm of another's life. But they are young and devoted, there's little their shared strength cannot accomplish. With the dedication of the earnest philosopher, they coordinate and adjust to each other, to living together. It's a very human kind of cartography—making a map to understand the territory of a body, the reaches of a heart, the patterns of breath and movement that run through the days of a lover.

Bolin watches her as if she were some kind of long-limbed, blue-eyed siren, and he the sailor searching for her from the crow's nest. He learns that she will sometimes sleep with her boots on, that she'd rather do the dishes than sweep the kitchen, that she lets him beat her at Pai Sho, that she makes sure his morning tea is cool enough to drink before handing it to him.

Korra commits his habits to memory with the same enthusiasm with which she memorizes bending forms, and with a gentleness that only he brings out in her. She learns that he prefers pulled pork on the salty side, that he adores radio soap operas, that he spends his spare yuans on dumplings for street children, that he's written _Bolin + Korra_ underneath the kitchen counter (_so many years, and still her heart can't believe this sudden and unfair beauty, this luck_).

_**Wednesday**_

They are not always together. Some mornings Bolin slips away and spends hours walking around the city. He sits on the street corners where he spent the black nights of his childhood, the tunnels where he'd pray to the spirits for Mako to return (_I don't know, Pabu,_ _he's not coming,_ so _I guess the spirits are too busy to listen today_), the alleyways filled with broken glass and rioters, those faceless men of vicious intention who would cover his eyes with fire and steal the bread from his burnt hands.

These are the homes Korra does not know, and he feels like he owes them something. Whatever the length of the dead days and whatever the shock of his suffering, these are the places that, in their own way, kept him safe. He stands in them, taller now, tougher now, and cannot think anything but _thank you_.

Korra takes advantage of his absence to write letters to her parents. They ask about her training, her health, and Bolin (_no, he hasn't asked me to marry him, Mom, but I don't think I would mind it if he did_). She draws little doodles in the margins (_this is what Bolin's curl looks like, this is a Satomobile_). But it doesn't take long for her to get anxious, to look up and think of him and where he could be.

She distracts herself with thoughts of the South Pole, the frozen expanse, those summer months of perpetual dusk with no wind and no moon, only stars and light. She closes her eyes and her memories come back to her easily, the soft images and sentiment of the aurora, and her belief that she'd never again see anything so beautiful.

"I _was_ right, there's nothing that beautiful. Nothing as beautiful as that sky." She says this out loud, her voice breaking the tense spell, the quiet in the house she now shares with Bolin. She suddenly remembers the flicker of his foolish smile, her old-fashioned boy with the lingering touch, her Bo, her green-eyed best friend.

"Well," Korra admits, "there is one exception."

_**Thursday**_

"Hey Bo?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Okay."

"Did you need anything?"

"No, just wanted to make sure you were still here."

A laugh. "Where else would I be?"

_**Friday**_

It doesn't matter how they fall asleep, they always wake up the same way. Korra with her legs hitched around Bolin's waist, her cheek resting on his head, his face buried in her neck. It's how they would hold each other during the nightmares (_his dream of a mother, her eyes gouged out, her dream of a masked man, eyes tearing her apart_). Now he is no longer a lost child, and she is stronger than supposed. But still they hold each other, if only to remind themselves: _I am never alone._

_**Saturday**_

They put up curtains, they rearrange furniture, they fix the edges of the tablecloth, the bedspread. They fix faulty tubing, they mop the floors, they wash the windows; Bolin humming out-of-tune, reaching for Korra and spinning her around and around, she's all dizzy and tender, blue-eyed and laughing, his hands find her soft shoulders blades, moving on up to her dark throat, where the quiet, intimate thump of her pulse rests and she's leaning in, lips slightly parted and—

The lights fizzle out, leaving them in pitch darkness.

"Did we pay our electric bill?" Korra asks after a moment's confusion.

"We got our electric bill?"

"I think so? Actually, I have no idea."

Bolin laughs. "We're just fantastic adults, aren't we? So what do we do now?"

Korra steps away from him and snaps her fingers; a little fire starts up in the center of her palm, illuminating both their faces. She lifts up her hand, shedding light on the rest of the room, and they admire their handiwork.

Their efforts to clean and to decorate, to have everything spic and span, have not gone to waste. There's Bolin's pink poppies, Korra's water tribe trinkets, there's a drawing by Meelo of the two of them holding hands, blue walls and black and white photographs of friends, family: this is a solid house of concrete memory, a house of their own.

"Hey," she says with wonder, "our house looks pretty good."

Bolin takes her hand and closes it, not fearing the fire. The light disappears. They cannot see each other, but she can hear the rush of his breathing, the sound as delicate and as poignant as a childhood dream. Those are his gentle fingers on her cheek.

"It's not our house, Korra," he whispers. In the dark she reaches out for him, unafraid. "It's our home."

_**Sunday**_

"Salt?"

"Check."

"Komodo chicken? Seasoning? Noodles?"

"Check, check and check. Taste test?"

"Let's see…hey, this might just be edible."

"You know, it's kind of good."

"I guess we did it, Bo."

"Yeah, we did."

He offers her his hand with a fiendish grin, expecting a congratulatory shake. But instead she takes it and doesn't let go. She brings his hand to her cheek and lets it rest there, her eyes drawing him closer.

Something passes between them, a moment of swelling rush and substance, a few seconds of raw understanding, an aurora, a spirit answering a little boy's call, something passes between them, and then it is gone. He lowers his face to hers, deliberately, purposefully, and somehow they are both thinking:

_"__I'll never forget this, not ever, because, for the first time—_

They are almost touching, almost, not quite, almost there. There's less and less space between them (_blue-eyed siren_), and then (_green-eyed best friend_) there's none at all.

_"__I know what it feels like to be finally returning home."_


End file.
